Lord Ernest leaned close all of a sudden and grasped her shoulders. Intensity seared her skin. Would he break his promise and kiss her? She was unsure what to hope for…
His lips neared, cheek brushing, breath at her ear, the scent of greenery lingering.
And he twisted her to face…
Oh.
ERNEST LITa second lantern so the painting could be viewed without shadow.
Although for certain he could strip naked and juggle six flaming torches and Hebe Locke would not notice, so enraptured was she, her face incandescent with joy.
After placing the lanterns to each side, he stood behind her, close, swan feathers tickling his chin and throat. And now he knew why she’d been with Grampy Tom so often over the past days – for the old rascal kept sacks of the swan’s moulted feathers that he sold for pillows in Burford Market.
Hellfire, she’d looked stunning tonight and his rakish tongue had bonded to the roof of his mouth when he’d viewed her upon that bench by the lake. A blurred vision of enticement – pure yet seductive, bold yet fragile.
Close up, he’d admired the mask of pure white that had concealed her face, glistening silver sequins splashed upon it. Feathers had curled high, swaying with every movement, and nestled within was a silver swan brooch. Her hair had been loose, a waterfall of diamond pins. And her dress… An ivorine that caused her skin to glow but with plumes sewn along every trim and edge – accentuating every graceful line.
It had taken all his control not to carry her away as in the legend of the Wild Hunt, to find a shadowed, untamed corner of the garden and claim her like the beast he portrayed.
But instinct had held him back.
For her previous frostbitten glares were a defence.
Those lashed words a wounded snarl.
Had her husband created such fear?
Still, he’d been unable to resist those lips.
Soft, honeyed and…
Tentative.
How often had Hebe been kissed? The question scorched in his gut. Why had her late husband not kissed her till she was breathless and gasping?
She murmured, her body lax, and he leaned in, hands to her waist, smooth satin catching beneath his rough fingertips. “You are so beautiful, Hebe Locke.”
A mocking chortle greeted his praise. “My looks are two-a-penny.”
He rested his cheek against hers. Did not laugh. “No, they are not. And when you stared at this painting, an expression so serene and exquisite overcame you. You enter a world I cannot reach, and I am…envious.”
For he wished to be on the receiving end of that look too. Have her gaze upon him with rapture and joy.
And not just from his bedsheets, but at a droll remark, conversation over dinner or out riding in the woods.
How curious.
“What do you see,” he rasped, “when you look at this?”
She tilted her head and his cheek followed.
“On one level, an oil painting by the great master, Mr Stubbs. A horse and dog meet for the first time, about to touch noses as creatures do. But…” Hebe’s slippered feet shuffled. “See how simple and light the background is, so as to guide our focus to the animals. The bay horse is elegant, almost silhouette, and yet look at his perfect, highlighted muscles. Exact yet fluid.” She tapped his hand with a finger as it held her waist, and he endeavoured to concentrate on the painting. “Their muzzles are a tantalising length apart – will their noses meet or not?”
“I’d say so, yes. They both look inquisitive. Not scared.” And for the first time, he could truly appreciate a painting. Oh, he wasn’t an utter philistine, but Casper had always used complicated expressions and waffled on about perspective.
Here with Hebe, he could see beauty.
“Exactly,” she whispered. “There is a charming harmony between the animals. An accord.”
